RYAN ADAMS
Gold (Lost Highway)
JAY FARRAR
Sebastopol (Artemis)
CHRIS KNIGHT
A Pretty Good Guy (Dualtone)
Wags call it the great roots rock scare of the 90s. About midway through the last decade, it seems like every time you took a step you tripped over a band that fell under the nebulous term "Americana." Country music was suddenly cool again—as long as it wasn't the kind on country radio—and bluegrass, folk and blues became hip genres to draw from. Young musicians spun tales in interviews about how they grew up listening to as much Johnny Cash and Hank Williams as punk rock, and Gram Parsons' ghost was welcomed to rehearsal halls all over the country. Cult and regional favorites like Townes Van Zandt, Joe Ely and Steve Earle found themselves sited as seminal influences, while major labels scrambled to sign up examples of this new underground sensation. Nobody wanted to be caught with the proverbial slack around the ankles when this new, song-centered, unpolished music trend started selling millions of records.
Except it didn't work out that way. Alt.country or Americana or No Depression (named after the magazine that sprung up to chronicle the music's trials and tribulations) or the new roots rock or whatever it's called remains a largely underground phenomenon. A great number of the bands associated with the movement in the early 90s have either broken up (Blue Mountain, Whiskeytown, scene godheads Uncle Tupelo) or mutated into something less inhibited by style or fan expectations (Wilco, the Jayhawks). Arguably any major artist with ambitions beyond making pleasant but inconsequential records will evolve beyond the constraints of any genre classifications anyway, and the best of the Depressed ones are doing just that. At the same time, new faces have sprung up to champion the roots-oriented values outgrown by the originals. (The 90s originals, that is—the 80s roots rock scare is a whole 'nother story.) Going into the new millennium, alt.country remains at the cult level, where it's likely to remain. But that doesn't mean some fine music, equal to anything with a higher profile or even mainstream success, isn't still coming out of the fertile womb that is Americana.
As the leader of Whiskeytown, Ryan Adams was alt.country's dark-haired golden boy, a precocious, phenomenally talented musician who constantly wrestled with the conflict between artistic development and youthful indiscretion. It's an ongoing struggle that's resulted in an uneven career; fortunately, maturity seems to be winning out. Gold, his second solo album (following the low-key Heartbreaker), finds the North Carolina native operating near the peak of his powers, popping out good-to-great songs more consistently than ever before. It's an old-fashioned singer/songwriter record, abandoning stylistic restrictions and concentrating on good tunes. He pulls together pretty much every musical inclination he's ever leaned toward, from folky pop ("Answering Bell," "New York, New York") to loud rock ("Enemy Fire," "Nobody Girl," "Tina Toledo's Street Walkin' Blues"), lush song stylings ("SYLVIA PLATH," "Goodnight, Hollywood Blvd.") to his specialty, countrified ballads ("Harder Now That It's Over," "Wild Flowers," "When the Stars Go Blue"). Despite his seeming restlessness, he maintains a coherent tone throughout, due partly to his strong melodic sense and distinctive voice and partly to Ethan Johns' clean, uncluttered production. Not that the record is perfect; at 21 songs and an hour and a half of music spread over two disks, it's got at least a half dozen tracks too many. Trimming the lesser tunes (basically all of disk two) would've made for a stronger statement, but overall Gold hits far more often than he misses. With little fuss and plenty of heart, Ryan Adams finally proves himself worthy of his hype.
Several years ago, Jay Farrar was already a legend due to his involvement in Americana figurehead Uncle Tupelo. Then he released Trace, the debut album by his band Son Volt that was and is the pinnacle of the whole alt.country thing. Unfortunately the two followups found Farrar attempting to remake the debut, succeeding only in running Son Volt into the ground. Clearly a change of scenery was needed, and Sebastopol is intended to be it. Joined by a motley collection of underground musicians, including Superchunk drummer Jon Wurster, ex-Bottle Rockets bassist Tom Ray and Flaming Lips utility man Steven Drozd, Farrar attempts to let some fresh air into the musty rooms of his musical mansion. There's definitely more of a groove to the rhythms, which loosens up the songs considerably; the liberal use of keyboards also lightens Farrar's usual dense arrangements. This is still a Jay Farrar album, though, which means songs built around the same folk/rock chord progressions (nothing you'd really call riffs) and marblemouthed vocals that have been the pillars of his music since the beginning. There are some fine songs here—"Clear Day Thunder," "Direction," the unusually poppy "Voodoo Candle," the patented Farrar ballad "Dead Promises"—but nothing out of the ordinary for the artist. Considering the presence of tunes like "Make It Alright" and "Feel Free," which Farrar can write in his sleep by now, one hopes that next time Farrar will realize that progression means more than just putting a new outfit on the same mannequin.
Unlike Adams and Farrar, Chris Knight has fewer ambitions toward stardom or artistic significance, and even less toward sonic extravagance. On his second album A Pretty Good Guy, he's much more interested in simply presenting his songs as clearly as possible. Producer Dan Baird (formerly of the Georgia Satellites, now of the Yayhoos) keeps the flash to a minimum, framing Knight's gravely voice with tasteful guitar and keyboards, a sedate rhythm section and occasional touches of fiddle and lap steel. Knight has stories to tell, and excessive instrumental flourishes would only get in the way. Not that his characters would stand for it—these are folks who'd kill you as soon as look at you, not because they get off on pain but because they feel it's necessary. The opener "Becky's Bible" sets the tone, as the protagonist expresses regret over shooting his opponent at cards not because he cares whether the man lives or dies, but because his arrest will worry his wife. The young man in "Down the River" can't fish anymore but he can still use his brother's watery grave to take revenge on his killer. The singer in "Blame Me" attempts to calm his wife down by taking the fall for her crime. Other characters waste their youth partying ("Oil Patch Town"), use the rolling blacktop to ease a broken heart ("Highway Junkie") and admit to envy of their robbery victims ("If I Were You"). Along the way, they look for salvation ("Send a Boat") and, if they're lucky, find it ("The Lord's Highway"). These characters don't do bad things willfully, but because they don't see any other way to act. These are well-traveled roads taken in well-weathered cars, but everything works just like it's supposed to, and Knight brings such weary conviction to these narratives that you can't help but get caught up in the stories. That's his goal all along and he reaches it handily on A Pretty Good Guy.
The diversity found under the tattered umbrella "Americana" not only stretches the definition of the style, but argues against the need for the label in the first place. Artists like Ryan Adams, Jay Farrar and Chris Knight may never be stars, but regardless they'll continue contributing to the rich and varied catalog of American music that draws strength from its roots but spreads its branches high into the sky. Michael Toland
For fans of:
Ryan Adams: Freedy Johnston, Jackson Browne, Neal Casal
Jay Farrar: Blue Rodeo, Grant-Lee Phillips, Joe Henry
Chris Knight: Steve Earle, John Prine, Larry Brown
Copyright © 2001 High Bias
